


A Little Less Promising, A Little More Useful

by hotmesslewis



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty - Fandom
Genre: (Very) Slow Start, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But I Don't Think It's Too Graphic?, Ducknerva, F/M, It's Two People Falling In Love That Takes Time, Like Probably A LOT More Tags, Slow Burn, The Adventure Zone-Typical Swearing, Violence, like the slowest burn, more tags to come, no revising we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: "How does a good man become a great man?"Reluctantly.Ned Chicane couldn't save the girl from the fire.  A world in which Aubrey Little didn't live exists.This is that world.
Relationships: Minerva/Duck Newton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Racing, Out of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I have really bad brain worms. This whole thing is the self-indulgent (what have I ever written that wasn't massive self-indulgence?) product of those brain worms.
> 
> The first big bad brain worm was an idea I played around with this past spring to cope with COVID anxiety--what if Aubrey Little didn't make it out of the fire? What if Ned couldn't save her? What would the town of Kepler, West Virginia, look like? What would Duck and Ned, the two chucklefucks, do without her? (Feel free to be mad at me for this bad idea, like, I Get It.). As such, this is a Canon Divergent AU, same monsters, similar important scenes in some cases probably, all that jazz. Told from the perspective of Duck Newton. (First chapter is basically the same as the podcast but w/e, things are gonna change.)
> 
> The other bad brain worms came, well. First, when Duck's name was revealed to be "Wayne," and I went wild. Second, when Duck called Minerva "honey," and I went deranged. Y'all it's so good. Unfortunately I'm the only one of my friends sailing this ship, so I gotta put my ideas somewhere.
> 
> This is a very long note that says nothing.

There was something strange about the town of Kepler, West Virginia.

People seemed to feel it as they crossed into the town--a sense of disquiet, a sense of displacement. Many folks wrote it off to the fact that Kepler was in the Green Bank Telescope’s US National Radio Quiet Zone, and, as a result, was just a little out of touch with the modern world. A radio tuned to just off a station’s frequency.

Lack of cell service, they said, could do that to a town.

Still, the kids knew it was something else, something yawning, something yearning in the steamy West Virginia night. The kids always knew it was something bigger than a few mobile phones getting poor reception.

But every year, a few brave or curious or stupid tourists still crossed those borders, still rambled their way into this small, strange little town. Even as the ski resorts and gift shops shuttered, still they came. Even as the town gasped for life, as shopkeepers and restaurateurs moved out with their young families (Kepler was no place to raise a child), the foolish and foolhardy came.

It was getting them to stay that was the problem.

*

There was something in the woods. Something huge and hulking and crashing through the dead dried leaves of the last fall and padding through the beds of pine needs, sure. Something stalking through the undergrowth, of course.

But there was also the archway.

In colors just a bit too bright for the moonlit night, it looked ancient, older than the town, of course, but older than the forest, maybe older than the Earth. Three gigantic slabs of stone, weighing tons each, impossible to be lifted by man alone, but there they were: two standing upright on end, a third balanced delicately, thoughtfully atop them. When the light from the nearly full moon hit the archway, it was like it sent a shiver through the silent night. A breeze stirred in the clearing. The trees trembled, the dust stirred.

If he looked closely enough, just there, through the arch, _he could nearly see it--_

Duck Newton woke with a start. He sat bolt upright, pushing the rolling chair back a few inches, and groaned when he saw the spot of drool on the survey map he’d been resting on. Duck glanced at the clock on the wall--almost a quarter past six--and rubbed a hand down his face, wiping sleep from his eyes. The phone rang again.

It was going to be a long night.

“Monongahela National Forest, Kepler Station, this is Duck Newton, how can I help you?” he answered.

“Hey, Duck? It’s Rick. We’ve got, uh, reports of a disturbance down at the park-and-camp RV grounds up in your neck of the woods. Can you go check it out?”

“Sure thing, Rick. On my way.” Duck hung up the phone and grabbed his walkie-talkie and a flashlight. He twirled the flashlight around his hand neatly before clipping it onto his belt-- _still got it_. Double-checking his keys, Duck cut the lights and locked the door of the small station outpost before heading down the trail toward the campground.

It was going to be a long night.

*

Duck Newton was going on a bear hunt.

At least, that’s what he thought.

The girl--Pigeon, heck of a name, _but who was he to judge?_ \--had seemed nervous. Jumpy, even. Well, she had taken a shot at him (through the door, anyway), so yeah, he could safely say “jumpy.” Said it was bigger than any bear she’d ever seen. Her behavior was almost enough to spook him, but he’d been at this job for, well. Longer than he liked to remember. He’d seen a hell of a lot. He walked the woods, every day, almost; he knew these woods. He knew what they held.

_Unless . . ._

But he was fooling himself if he thought this was anything other than a bear. No matter what the girl said. No matter the strange sheen on the black, bloody trail he was following, had been following for the last hour.

It was his responsibility as a district ranger of the Monongahela National Forest to find her friend. He couldn’t just leave the poor guy alone out here in the woods, in the falling darkness. 

Not in these woods.

Not in these woods, with the . . . light? Duck glanced back, but no--the lights of Kepler, the lights of the park-and-camp were far behind him, and he hadn’t circled around, he was well off the trail, and deep in the woods now. Besides, the light was low to the ground, illuminating the bed of pine needles and last year’s dead leaves and his own beat-up, muddy boots--a flashlight, dropped ( _Pigeon’s friend?)_ . _And the strange, dark patches that looked almost like_ \-- Duck tried to place it. Like scorched earth. Like a controlled burn, but in odd, uneven patches. _Patches almost like--_

Duck was stooping, pushing through the low branches from the trees, making his way through the thick growth to see the burnt ground better, when the voice came booming through the strange silence of the woods.

“Duck Newton! The moment of your destiny has arrived.”

_Well, fuck._

Duck Newton, the Chosen, thought it without even realizing it, as he looked up from the ground and into the, well, where the face of Minerva would have been, if she’d had a face. Which she did, probably. He just couldn’t see it for the blue, staticky glow that made up her form: that of a tall, broad-shouldered, long-necked woman with a bald head. Duck stood up a little straighter.

“Damn. Hey, Minerva. After all this time, I’d gotten to thinking maybe you were a dream, too.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “There is no more time to delay, Duck Newton! Events have been put into motion which require your immediate action.”

 _Well, fuck me I guess, then._ Duck stared at her for the briefest moment and pressed his lips together, thinning them in thought. Did he really want to do this, now? (Did he really want to do this, ever?)

“All right.” 

Nope.

So he did what he always did. He turned, and walked away.

Minerva called out behind him. “Duck Newton, wait! I must know if you’ve been training your body to achieve and maintain peak physical capabilities, Duck Newton.”

It seemed rude not to answer. Duck turned back towards Minerva but continued walking backward, feeling out each step. “You know what? I did try that, uh, CrossFit. Darren opened up one of them CrossFit places--they do bait in the day and CrossFit in the evening, so I tried that for a bit. Well, once. The first one was free, but you know, with the way my schedule is, it can be so unpredictable, so I didn’t really, uh. Keep it up, as it were. Didn’t think it’d be worth the membership fee.”

Minerva blinked out of existence for a moment, and Duck thought he was off the hook until he saw out of the corner of his eye, and there she was again, looking him over with what seemed like intensity. He startled, swore out loud and almost dropped his flashlight and the rifle Pigeon had given him. “Really?” _Really._

“Duck Newton, where is your chosen weapon? Where is the instrument of your destiny?”

“Uh, thing is. Well, Minerva, I’ll shoot straight with you, it kinda creeped me out. Now I’m not gonna say I’ve got, you know, a design aesthetic goin’ on or anything, but weird bendy sword thing just wasn’t doin’ it for me. So I, uh, I gave it to a friend to hang on to for a bit.”

She was frowning. He couldn’t see it, of course, but he could just _feel_ it from her. “Duck Newton, I know well of your hesitance. But you must know that I have waited long enough. Now is the time--”

The sound of a branch, and not a small one, snapping broke through her words. Duck and Minerva both whipped their heads around toward the sound.

“Duck Newton, are you in dange--” And she was gone.

There was another sound now--a deep, heaving sigh. Not one made by man. And not one made by any bear Duck had ever heard. “Shit,” he murmured, and turned his flashlight to face his immediate fate.

It wasn’t a bear. 

It was something bigger.

Standing a good two feet taller than Duck himself was a creature that he could only think of as a _beast,_ _huge and hulking and crashing through the dead dried lea--_ but this wasn’t his dream, this was now and real and very much immediately happening. Duck stumbled but kept his footing, shining the flashlight over the beast, except--was it one? One single creature? Because the light kept catching things that shined and glowed like eyes, but there were more than the normal amount of eyes, and there were pairs of eyes in places that eyes usually weren’t. Set on approximately where Duck would guess the head of this thing was, sure, but also set high on what looked to be a shoulder, and deep in the torso, and down on a haunch, glistening as he moved the light over the fur of the beast. Which wasn’t like any pelt he’d seen before, either, a strange patchwork of shades and textures. 

It was a fascinating beast to behold.

Until the thing roared, then it was just terrifying.

Duck Newton knew a thing or two about bears, and he knew the things a person was supposed to do when coming upon a wild black bear in the woods. 

Duck Newton did none of those things.

He chucked Pigeon’s rifle at the beast’s head, instead, and took off running in the other direction.

The beast was much bigger Duck--taller, broader, just plain bigger. Unwieldy, and slower than Duck, but still big enough that, with a roar and a mighty swipe of a clawed paw, the beast tore a line down his arm. Duck heard the sound of the sleeve of his standard-issue ranger’s uniform ripping, and felt at his shoulder with a mild panic as he stumbled forward, but felt nothing--no warm, damp blood. No pain, even. 

_Huh, will you look at that,_ Duck Newton, the Tough, thought. _Still got it._

And that’s when he tripped, and went rolling, coming to a sprawling stop, stunned for a moment. Fuck. He’d dropped everything, now, his walkie-talkie radio, his flashlight, and he sure as hell wasn’t going back for the rifle. The flashlight rolled, spinning for a moment on the ground, before coming to a stop shining directly into a patch of thick brush, where Duck could just make out the frightened face of a young man.

“Pete?” Duck hissed, recalling the name Pigeon had given for him. Pete nodded, small and uncertain.

The beast was charging. Duck Newton had to do _something._

He spoke quietly and calmly. “All right, Pete. I’m gonna do something, probably something really stupid, and when I do I’m going to need you to run like hell in that direction, okay? You can just nod if you understand.”

Pete nodded, once.

“All right.” Duck picked himself up, almost right as the beast was on top of him. Deftly dodged another swipe, ducking behind the creature, and then he did something really stupid.

He kicked the creature in the ass.

“Go, man, go!” Duck yelled, diving to dodge another attack from the beast that grazed him. He stumbled but did not fall, his hands hitting the ground. Duck grabbed blindly at something, anything in the black within arms reach, and scooped up his walkie-talkie. _That’ll do._

Running like, well. Like a beast from hell was after him, Duck fiddled with the radio. “Come in, someone, please, come in.”

A voice crackled over the receiver. “Duck Newton? That you?”

It was Juno Divine. _Thank God._

Duck ran. “Juno, I got, uh, a bit of a situation out here. Got a, uh. All right. An unknown assailant on my trail. I’m just north of Cranberry Creek, headed--headed south, headed toward the creek. Do you read?”

There was silence on the other end. Duck fiddled with the knob on the radio, swearing to himself. “I said, Juno, do you read?”

A crackle of static, and then, _thank God_ , Juno. “Duck, you’re brea-- up. --id you say --nberry Creek?”

“Yeah, Juno, copy--” Duck tripped over a branch in the dark. “Shit!” He caught himself before he fell, but dropped the radio, impossible to find in the dark, and the thing was close, but further back than he had realized, and he might could lose it, but there was no way he was finding his walkie-talkie again. He thought he heard a final transmission as he took off running again, something about trying to find him. _Thank God._

Duck Newton tore through the woods. The beast crashed through the woods, the undergrowth and whipping tree branches behind him. But the sound became more and more distant with each passing, breathless moment, until Duck Newton realized he couldn’t hear anything at all.

He pulled up, stopped short. Hands on his knees, he caught his breath in the cool, brightly moonlit clearing, ready to start running again any second. But there was no sound behind him, now.

Duck Newton realized that he couldn’t hear anything at all.

Duck Newton looked up.

Duck Newton realized that, for all of the times he’d walked the woods, he’d never seen this clearing before.

There it stood. Ancient, older than the town, older than the forest, even. Three gigantic slabs of stone.

_The archway._

Duck Newton walked to it. Circled it slowly, gazing at it in confusion? Wonder, at least. It was like nothing he’d ever seen--on television, sure, maybe, but not in person, and certainly not in Kepler, West Virginia.

It was beautiful but frightening, and Duck Newton didn’t understand why.

And then, she was there again. Standing calm and tall, her static face turned towards the archway.

“Jesus, Minerva!” Duck swore, clutching at his chest.

She circled it, much the way that he had, and then came to a stop beside him. Turned her face toward him. He couldn’t see her expression--he never could--but her voice revealed every bit of her wonder. “So this is your connection.” Her voice was hushed, respectful even. “Fascinating.”

“I’m sorry, I, uh. I don’t understand.”

There was a crashing in the woods, breaking the surreal silence of the clearing. Getting closer.

Minerva spoke with pressing need. “You are not ready to face your destiny, Duck Newton, and yet you must. There are worlds beyond yours, Duck Newton, a world that meets and joins with your own. You must--”

“Look, Minerva, I hate to be like that, but I really haven’t got the time--”

The spectral woman reached out to him, like she was trying to take his face in her hands to make him look at her. “Duck Newton, what I say is important--”

The thrashing in the woods was louder. Duck whipped his head around in the direction of the sound, right through the blue static of her hand. Minerva mirrored his action, turning her head as well. “Minerva-- I--”

The moon shined in the clearing. Through the archway, there was a light, and it was not of his world. Duck turned back to Minerva.

“Duck Newton, quick, through the archway! You will be brave, Duck Newton. This is why--”

She was gone.

A shiver went through the world. The trees trembled, the dust stirred.

Duck Newton stepped into a new world.

The beast stepped into the empty clearing.


	2. Trouble, Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't bring myself to write about the sceptic tank stuff, it just grossed me out too much. You get fried chicken buckets instead.

“You gotta forget that this night ever happened,” Vincent, the Goatman, had said.

Duck Newton would be more than glad to.

But the night wasn’t over yet.

Duck Newton stepped back through the stone arch, back onto Planet Earth, and stopped short when he saw the small smoke and the lightly crumpled metal of a car, crashed into the archway. Duck Newton sighed, and gathered himself.

“All right.”

It was going to be a long night.

Rolling his neck, Duck surveyed the scene. No beast. Car crashed into archway. _Duck knew that car._ Two men, standing, staring at the archway. Well, at him, probably. Large bearded man who looked vaguely familiar, a face he’d seen around town but didn’t have a name for, and . . . _was that Ned fuckin’ Chicane?_

“Ned Chicane? That you?” _What was he_ wearing? Some kind of dark, furry costume thing? Duck didn’t know who was more surprised to see who, but Ned Chicane, being Ned Chicane, recovered quickly.

“Welcome to my fucking awesome dream, Duck!”

“Ned, I, uh. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t actually think you are dreaming.” 

Duck Newton knew a thing or two about dreams. 

This, unfortunately, was not a dream.

“Oh, sure I am, Duck! This isn't real, it can’t be real. I mean, this guy’s Bigfoot, you’re here, I just hit a giant demon bobcat with my car and then crashed into an archway that was invisible but now isn’t, that’s all . . .” Ned stopped short. Looked down at his stupid costume, and back up at Duck.

Duck glanced at the other man, skeptically. “Bigfoot, huh?” He didn’t look much like Bigfoot.

The man nodded tersely. “Yep. I mean, I prefer Barclay, actually. But Bigfoot’s technically not untrue.”

Duck considered a moment, thought. Nodded. “Nice to meet you, Barclay.”

Bigfoot. 

In Kepler, West Virginia.

_All right._

That tracks.

Ned still stood there, dumbfounded. “. . . this isn’t a dream, is it, Duck?”

“ ‘Fraid not, Ned.”

“Shit.”

Duck and Barclay watched as Ned turned, looked around bewildered, and lashed out, kicked at a tire on his car, the Lincoln Continental, Mark III. As if instantly regretting his rash actions toward the inanimate object, Ned leaned over, petting the car on the hood, crooning to it, apologizing to it, calling it _Ruby_.

Barclay turned to Duck and nodded toward Ned. “You know him?”

“Yeah. I guess you could say we’re friends.”

“Okay. You know why he’s dressed like that?”

Duck shrugged. “No clue.”

“Okay. Say, uh. About that stone . . . archway thing. You can, um. How come you could see it?”

Duck frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how could you _see_ it?” He added emphasis to the word _see_ , as though that would clear things up for Duck.

“I just _saw_ it? It was just there. I don’t know what else to tell you, man.”

“Uh, okay.” Barclay and Duck watched Ned baby his car a moment longer, and then Barclay turned back to Duck suddenly. “Holy shit. Did you go through the archway?”

“Yeah? I mean, I was being chased by this big bear thing, and that seemed--”

“Wait, wait, wait. Big bear thing?”

“Yeah?”

“No, listen, this is extremely important, you’ve got to tell me everything. What about this big bear thing?”

“I don’t know what-- I mean, it was like a bear, but it wasn’t.”

“How, though? How, uh, wasn’t it?”

The man did claim to be Bigfoot. _Maybe he knew something about this._ “Big. Bigger than a normal black bear, with, like. More eyes and limbs, and a couple of antlers in places where antlers aren’t supposed to be.” Barclay stared at him. “I mean, that’s anywhere, I guess, technically. On a bear. Bears don’t usually have antlers,” Duck clarified.

“Fuck,” Barclay swore. “And so, you were running from it, and you saw the arch, and you ran through it . . . ?”

“Yep.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Barclay swore again, with feeling. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

There was a rustle in the woods behind them. Duck barely registered the sound.

_It sounded wrong._

Barclay was still talking, mostly to himself. “Okay. I gotta figure this out. Okay. Ned said your name was, what, Duck?”

“Uh, yeah. Duck Newton, District Ranger for the Monongahela National Forest. It’s a nickname.” A branch snapped behind him. Duck glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see anything.

“Okay, Duck, you gotta tell me--did you see anything in the archway? Or beyond it. I mean _anything_.”

Duck looked at him blankly. _But maybe this Barclay fella knew something about this._ Duck Newton could not lie, but Duck Newton could vague. “I don’t know. There might’ve been a, uh, a goat man?”

“Vincent,” Barclay muttered under this breath. _So he did know._ “And what did this goat man say to you, Duck?”

 _Was that the wind in the trees?_

It sounded louder than the breeze. 

“He said quite a bit, bein’ honest.”

“All right.” Duck could hear the man fighting off his growing panic. “All right. Okay. We’re gonna figure this out. Okay. All right, uh, Duck? Could you accompany me, and, and your friend Ned there, back to Amnesty Lodge?”

It wasn’t the breeze. Duck watched the treeline. “Not right now, Barclay--”

“No, look, you’ve got to understand--”

“No, Barclay? It’s not that, it’s--”

There was a sigh from the edge of the clearing. A deep sigh, a huge sigh. Barclay turned his head toward it. Ned looked up from examining his broken-out headlight.

“It’s here,” Duck finished lamely.

The light of the car headlights and the moon cresting the clouds illuminated the beast stalking toward them from the woods.

“Shit,” Barclay said.

“All right, now--” Barclay and Duck both started speaking together, stopped. Looked at each other. 

It was Duck Newton’s responsibility as ranger for the Monongahela National Forest to protect these two, as park visitors, from rampaging wildlife. But this life was a little more wild than he usually dealt with, and maybe the man who was Bigfoot knew some things he didn’t. “You, uh. You wanna take this one, man?” Duck asked.

“Yeah, I think I got--” but the beast charged, and Barclay took off running, and it was every man for himself. Barclay made it to the trees before turning back. Ned Chicane cowered behind his car. Duck Newton stood alone in the clearing, staring down the beast. 

Barclay called from the woods, “You’re a park ranger! Haven’t you got a gun, or something?”

“No! We don’t really make a habit of fucking shooting the animals! Christ!”

Duck saw out of the corner of his eye as Ned popped the trunk of the Continental, and for a moment Duck was convinced that Ned was planning to climb in, close himself in the trunk. But instead, Ned was calling out his name. “Duck, catch!”

Duck spun around, threw out his hand, and caught. A walking stick, heavy wood, and a brass handle--the townsfolk had wondered over the years if Ned Chicane really needed it. He had a slight limp when he walked, but he was also prone to accessory and affectation. Duck stalled, said, “Okay, great, and what do you expect me to do with--”

Duck heard the heavy breath of the beast right behind him, and turned, holding the cane in both hands like a baseball bat, and lashed at the thing, making contact, and again, and again, rearing back for another strike when he saw the beast stunned and cowering back for the moment. Taking two sure steps back, at the ready-- _this wasn’t Duck_ \--bouncing on the balls of his feet, Duck Newton watched the beast and heard his compatriots sounding off behind him.

“Damn, Duck!” Ned called from where he was still leaning over his trunk.

This felt _right._

“What the fuck, man!” he heard the other man say, and there was a dark-furred shape rushing past him, and jumping on the beast, taking advantage of the beast’s temporary incapacitation. The dark-furred thing ripped at the beast’s throat with its teeth, but moments later was tossed to the ground as the beast recovered itself. It lay there groaning for a moment before picking itself back up--huge, though not as big as the beast, a good seven feet tall, covered in dark fur, unnaturally large feet.

“Is that fucking thing Bigfoot?” Duck called back to Ned.

“What do you think?” Ned replied, before exclaiming in delight and pulling his head out of the trunk. Triumphantly, he held up an empty fried chicken bucket.

Duck stared as Ned seemingly lost his mind.

“Woo hoo!” Ned yelled, dancing around, waving the empty chicken bucket in the air. “Come get me, you son of a bitch!” Ned ran forward, around his car, much closer than was wise to the beast. That’s when the wind caught the greasy scent of the bucket, and the beast turned its attention to Ned, who took off through the archway. Ned came through the other side, which surprised Duck, who had expected him to disappear. The beast followed, and that’s when Duck realized what Ned was doing--he was trying to trap the beast. Too large to fit fully through the stone arch, it was stuck, its head and one ghastly shoulder through the archway, a paw swiping at Ned, while the other shoulder was caught by an antler on the top stone. With Ned safely out of paw’s reach of the beast, Duck ran forward, attacking the creature again with the walking stick, _again, again_.

He didn’t want the beast dead, but he needed to cripple it somehow.

_He didn’t think he wanted it dead, anyway._

Barclay jumped on the creature from behind, and the surprise of it caused the creature to hit its head hard on the top of the archway. Duck struck at its torso with the heavy brass end of the walking stick and only hesitated a moment when he saw the blood. The beast roared in pain, but managed to unseat Barclay again.

All of its wrath was focused on Duck Newton.

_He was going to kill this thing._

It untangled its antler, backing up from the archway that Duck realized the beast could not see. The beast lunged forward, got caught on the archway again, repositioned, lunged again.

Duck Newton would not back down.

Duck Newton wasn’t going anywhere.

“Come on, motherfucker!” he yelled furiously into the night, and a peel of thunder echoed his voice as the sky opened up. Duck Newton didn’t notice the rain. “Is that the best you can do?”

This time the beast cleared the archway, and charged straight for him. _It was going to drag him down_ , Duck knew, he saw it coming, but he was ready, digging his heels into the rain-softened earth and swinging the cane back.

The beast turned, suddenly. There was a light breaking through the trees, bouncing off the rain, and the rumble of an engine over the sudden storm. The beast ran into the woods opposite the direction the light was coming from, and Duck stood there, walking stick raised in futile frustration.

A Monongahela National Forest response truck, rolling at a crawl through the trees. Ned was at Duck’s side, gently taking the walking stick from his hand. Barclay was by the car, in the shape of a man again.

Duck Newton collapsed in on himself as the vehicle rolled to a stop.

_This wasn’t Duck._

Draped in a standard-issue park service raincoat, a figure stepped from the truck. “Ranger Newton, is that you? What’s going on?”

It was Juno Divine. _Thank God._ She grabbed an umbrella from the Jeep and jogged over to the odd group.

“Ranger Newton, are you okay?”

Duck composed himself. “Yeah, Juno. Sorry about the, uh. False alarm.”

“False alarm? Duck, you said an ‘unknown assailant.’”

“Yes. Yes, I did, didn’t I? It was, uh. Forest sounds? Just plain ol’ forest sounds, but I got spooked, I guess. And panicked. And ended up here. With these two. It was these two, I think? That I heard.”

Duck Newton could not lie. Juno Divine knew this better than most. She watched him suspiciously for a moment, then turned to the other two men. “And what are y’all doing out here, so far off the trails, with an unauthorized vehicle, anyway?”

Ned started. “We--”

Duck interrupted. “That’s it! That’s what I was doing. Giving these two a warning for being off the trails and in an unauthorized vehicle. Off the trails,” Duck finished.

Ned took over. “He’s right, Officer.”

“Ranger,” Juno corrected.

“Yes! Ranger, of course, Ranger, uh?”

“. . . Ranger Divine . . .”

“Ranger Divine. We managed to get a bit lost out here, and that’s how we found ourselves out here, off the trails. In the car.”

Juno’s distrust was plain on her face. Duck prayed she would let it go.

“Right,” Juno said slowly. She glanced around the clearing and sighed. She couldn’t see the stone archway, Duck realized. This Barclay fella must have been right, about it not being visible to, well, to most people, Duck reckoned, if what the man _(the_ _Bigfoot?_ ) said was true. _Huh._ “Well. I don’t see any obvious damage to the forest, and it sounds like Ranger Newton here has given you your verbal warning, so. I guess that’s it. We catch you out here again, you might be subject to ejection from forest grounds. We’re just going to wait here, and escort you back down the mountain, there.” She turned to Duck and nodded toward the truck. “What do you say, Ranger Newton. Need a ride back to the station?”

Duck needed to know more about what happened tonight. From Ned, from Barclay.

Duck didn’t understand what happened tonight.

Duck couldn’t think of a reason not to go with Juno. “Yep. Yep, Ranger Divine, I guess I will be. Heading back to the station. With you.”

Barclay called out from the Lincoln as Duck was climbing into the passenger seat of the truck. “Say, uh, Ranger Newton. If you’re free tomorrow, we’d love to have you up at Amnesty Lodge for lunch?”

“Sure thing, Barclay.”

The Lincoln and the truck both cranked to life, and Juno led the Lincoln through the woods to the dirt access road nearest the archway’s clearing. She pulled to the side, and waited to follow Ned and Barclay back to the main road. “So, uh, Duck. You gonna tell me what was really going on back there?”

Duck Newton could not lie, so Duck Newton answered honestly. “Juno, I have absolutely no idea.”

Juno laughed a little at his candor, and side-eyed him. “I mean, that was Ned Chicane, right? What was he _wearing?_ ”

“I don’t think I wanna know, honestly.”

Juno tried to keep a straight face. “Okay, but you gotta tell me: you think it was some kind of sex thing?”

Duck nearly choked. “Jesus, Juno. I sure as hell hope not.”

*

It was quarter after six the next morning when Duck Newton arrived home to his spacious, cozy two-bedroom apartment and his cat. He was exhausted. He was always exhausted after an overnight, but last night was really something else.

Duck Newton wondered if he had maybe almost died, last night.

Thank God the rangers always got the day off, after an overnight shift. He was expected at Amnesty Lodge by noon or so, but he could grab, what, maybe four hours of sleep before then?

Duck fed the cat. He scrambled a couple of eggs and toasted a piece of bread for himself. He treated himself--slapped a slice of American on that sucker, made cheese toast, like he was a kid again. He brushed his teeth and took a long, hot shower to work out some of the tension in his back.

He hadn’t been himself, last night.

_He’d been out of control._

No, he’d been too much in control, and that scared him.

Duck toweled off, stepped into his boxers. Threw the towel into the corner of the bathroom floor, behind the door; maybe he’d do laundry tomorrow. _Today. Whatever._

Standing in the middle of his bedroom was the tall, calm static silhouette of Minerva. Duck stared and sighed. _Shit._ He didn’t have time for this. He needed some sleep, sometime today, please, Jesus. _God damn it._

“Hey, Minerva.” Duck walked straight through her spectral form and sat on the bed. He looked at her, waiting.

She didn’t say anything.

He noticed the song.

Gentle song, sad, longing song, haunting song plucked out on a single acoustic guitar. It sounded distant. It spit and crackled like an old radio, tuned just off a station’s frequency.

She stood there, gazing upward. Duck couldn’t help himself--he glanced up to his ceiling. _There was nothing there._ Still, Minerva stood staring.

“Minerva?” Duck asked.

She didn’t respond. Her form flickered, just a moment, and it was silent in his bedroom. She was gone.

Duck Newton laid back on his bed, and wondered if he had dreamed it.

He fell asleep on top of the covers, and woke a few hours later convinced that he had.


	3. Bloody Up Your Knuckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duck Newton is afraid of one thing and that is his destiny (Happy Halloween to all y'all reading this on the day it's posted).

Duck Newton had never been to Amnesty Lodge before. 

Most of the people of Kepler, West Virginia, had never been to Amnesty Lodge before--they talked about it, sometimes wondered about the strange and beautiful Lodge on the mountainside. But it seemed as though nobody had ever actually _been_ there. Despite the place being open since, what, the mid-, late-Eighties? Not that people in Kepler usually made habit of frequenting their town's own motels and hotels. But they had guests from out of town, sometimes, and it seemed as though nobody that anybody knew ever stayed there. Even as a number of other motels, hotels in Kepler closed, nobody that anybody knew stayed there. It was almost as though the place didn’t accept reservations. Yet, somehow, the Lodge was still open, doing a steady business in a dying town.

Duck didn’t even know if he’d been up the secluded side road that led to the Lodge before, despite having lived all his life in Kepler, despite the Lodge opening when he was a teenager. Duck walked up the road toward the building, looking around with some fair share of curiosity. Now, at least, he could brag to the fellas at The Little Dipper (Kepler's requisite dive bar) and the gang at work, that he’d been to the mysterious Amnesty Lodge.

It was beautiful. Very much the expected lodge aesthetic, a cozy log cabin-feel to the place: the main building, lobby and facilities, Duck reckoned, an odd shape from the exterior: constructed of stacked pine logs, with a sweeping carved-branch arched entryway over the heavy wood front doors. There were two corridors off of this main building, stretched out to either side like open arms, simple and elegant, that Duck presumed held the guest quarters. A sign near the steps to the porch promised hot springs somewhere to the right, behind the building. The building’s most impressive feature, though, was the massive geodesic dome of glass that comprised most of the roof of the main building, an incredible and intricately pieced skylight. When the sun hit it just right, it reflected in rainbow. Duck Newton couldn’t imagine what it looked like from the inside of the building.

Duck Newton was about to find out.

He walked past a dirty pick-up truck and Ned’s Lincoln, up the three steps to the front porch, which featured a couple of the most beautiful rocking chairs that Duck had ever seen, backs ornately carved with flora and fauna. He admired them after knocking, waiting for a response.

A young woman with long blonde hair opened the door. “Hello. Is it, uh, Ranger Newton?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Duck said, nodding politely.

“Come on in, Ranger Newton.” She stood to the side, welcoming him with an open hand. “And, just so you know, you don’t have to knock? This is, like, a hotel.”

“Right, of course.” 

Duck stepped inside. 

The lobby exceeded his expectations.

The light was stunning--crystal clear daylight, reaching every corner of the huge octagonal lobby, reflecting multiple colors in those corners. One wall was mostly taken up by a massive fireplace, which, although currently unlit, promised to be the lobby’s most popular feature come the cold West Virginia mountain winter months. Another wall held a small waterfall water feature, spilling from the wall into a small pool sunk into the floor. A couple of younger guests sat by this pool, laughing, tossing fish food pellets to the pond’s large goldfish. The other walls held bookshelves crammed with books, or featured lit landscape paintings. A massive hallway opened up the room across from the front door, and beyond was a warmly-lit dining room with tables and chairs and a fully-stocked bar off to one side. The lobby had its share of furniture: overstuffed chairs near the bookshelves, a couch across from the fireplace, a couple of small tables and chairs scattered around the room: two men sitting at one of these tables, hunched over a game of checkers. A baby grand piano took its place in the middle of the room, where a petite woman picked out a spritely tune that sounded like wind chimes to Duck. A check-in counter stood off to the left near the front door.

“Damn,” Duck said. Took into account his company, and corrected. “I mean, wow.”

The young woman smiled. “It’s okay, you can swear. It _is_ pretty nice,” she admitted, sounding almost embarrassed. “We’re very lucky to have this place. Barclay will be out in a moment, if you’ll wait here?” She turned to leave, and turned back for a moment. “Oh, I’m Dani, by the way. Nice to meet you, Ranger Newton.”

“You can just call me Duck. It’s a nickname.”

“Okay, Ranger Duck.” She smiled shyly at him and crossed over to an empty seat, where she picked up the sketchpad and charcoal that lay abandoned on the end table next to the chair. She curled up and resumed a drawing that Duck could tell was already in progress.

Duck Newton had lived in Kepler, West Virginia all of his life, but he’d never met Dani before. Looking around the room, waiting on Barclay, he observed the other guests. He knew none of their names; he knew none of their faces.

 _What_ was _this place?_

Moments later, Barclay crossed from the open dining room across the way from the front door, wearing an apron around his waist and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Ranger Newton, thanks for coming,” he said, tossing the towel over his shoulder and offering his hand.

Duck shook it. “Duck, please. You’ve, uh. Got quite a place here, Barclay.”

Barclay grinned. “Thanks, but it’s not mine. I just work here. Speaking of, soup’s almost ready, and Ned’s waiting for us in her office. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mama.”

Barclay led him through the lobby and to the corridor to the left. He knocked on the first door they came to, and opened it when a grizzled female voice called, “Come in!”

Duck stepped into possibly the messiest room he’d seen in his life. It wasn’t dirty, although it looked like it could have used a thorough cleaning, as well--it was just _messy._ Duck tried not to stare at the leaning (or collapsed) stacks of books, papers, maps on the office desk and in corners around the room, or the overflowing and unorganized bookshelf. One wall featured a large window with the blinds currently raised, offering a nice view of a small vegetable garden full of late summer crops, ready for harvesting. The other wall featured a blown-up map of Kepler, West Virginia, and the surrounding area, tacked to a giant corkboard. Branching from this map were dozens of newspaper clippings, photographs, handwritten notes, drawings. _Huh._ Some objects that Duck couldn’t identify right off. Despite his best intentions, Duck couldn’t help but stare at it. “All right.”

A coarse laugh came from behind an ancient laptop on the desk, and Duck looked around to see the woman who owned that laugh. She was maybe fifteen years older than him, a broad woman with long gray hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Duck couldn’t tell much about her, sitting, but he got the sense that her broadness had more to do with sheer physical strength and less to do with weight.

“Friend Duck!” Ned called cheerfully from a seat facing the front of the desk. “I’d like for you to meet Mama.”

Duck would have doffed his hat, if he’d been wearing his uniform. “Ma’am,” he acknowledged, nodding his head. “My name is Duck Newton, District Ranger for the Monongahela National Forest, and I must say you’ve got a very nice establishment here.”

“Well, thank you, Duck--may I call you Duck?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is my nickname.”

“That’s enough of that 'ma’am' nonsense, it’s just Mama. Please, Duck, take a seat. Got a little somethin’ we’d like to talk over with you.”

“All right, uh, Mama.” Duck perched on the edge of the chair, uncomfortable. He felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Am I . . . this is gonna sound dumb, but am I in trouble?”

Mama laughed again, and it was a nice sound. Gruff, but comforting. “Not at all, Duck. We’ve, uh. We’ve got a little proposition for you, bein’ honest.”

“Okay?”

“I already said yes,” Ned bragged.

“See, Duck?” Mama continued. “Barclay here, he’s my right-hand man, and he told me about last night.” Duck glanced at Barclay, who had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “There’s some things you should know, Duck. You saw, well, quite a bit last night, so it’s about time someone filled you in on some things. I think, after last night, you’ve got a right to know some things, and ask some questions. After all, Barclay said that you might’ve probably saved his life, and Ned’s here, too.” She took a deep breath. “Now, you might know some of this, Duck--you’ve lived here your whole life, right? You know that Kepler’s not like other towns. No one really acknowledges it with each other, but everyone who lives here figures it out, after a while. 

And maybe the biggest thing about Kepler’s that’s different, is that monsters are real here.”

Duck Newton took this in stride. 

“All right.”

“Now some of those monsters--well, they’re not really monsters so much. They’re more folks, I guess. Folks, just, not-exactly-human folks.”

“Like Barclay,” Duck filled in.

“Like Barclay, yes. And like, well. All the folks here at Amnesty Lodge, ‘ceptin’ me. They come from this other world, actually, called--”

“--Sylvain,” Duck finished softly.

Mama looked at him curiously. “Barclay said you’d seen the archway in the woods, said you’d been through it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mama.”

“So you know a bit about Sylvain.”

“A bit. Very little, bein’ honest. But I have been there. Apparently? To another, uh. Planet, I guess.”

“Duck Newton, you’re an astronaut!” Ned exclaimed.

“So that’s something fun I have to think about now, Ned. Thanks for that.”

Mama continued. “I know I said I’d let you ask the questions, but I got to know--what happened while you were over there?”

Duck Newton was as good as his word. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I’ve sworn to secrecy.”

Mama glanced at Barclay, who was leaning back, arms crossed, against the closed door. “Vincent?” she asked.

“I believe so, Mama. He said ‘goatman,’” Barclay answered.

“All right, Duck, fair enough. I like a man who can keep a secret. I’ll see if I can’t go have a little talk with Vincent myself in the next couple of days, see if we can’t get some stuff straightened out. Did he tell you about the, the folks comin’ over into our world from Sylvain?”

“He, supposin’ there was a ‘he,’ may have mentioned something about some exiles.” Barclay flinched behind him, and Duck regretted his choice of words.

“Well, that’s who lives here--those folks who come over to Earth from Sylvain. That’s why this place, Amnesty Lodge, exists: to give those folks a home. A _safe_ home, do you understand me? That’s why we don’t exactly have regular out-of-towners here at the Lodge. This place has got to stay safe for the Sylphs who live here now. You understand, Duck?”

“Yes, ma’am. No telling anybody that monsters live at Amnesty Lodge.” This time, Duck was the one who flinched. “Monsters?” he asked. “That doesn’t, uh. That doesn’t seem right.”

Barclay cleared his throat. “We prefer Sylphs, actually, yeah.”

“Sylphs. Got it, thanks, man,” Duck repeated, and repeated it in his mind a few times: _Sylphs, Sylphs. Sylphs._

“Did Vincent tell you anything much about the Abominations?” Mama asked.

“Whoa. Hey. That, uh, that seems worse than ‘monsters?’”

“No,” Barclay jumped in. He crossed over from the door and perched on the edge of Mama’s desk, the corner nearest Duck. “No, ‘Abominations’ is about right for these things. You see, Duck, they’re not Sylphs; that is, they’re not from Sylvain. They’re something else.”

“We don’t know where the Abominations come from, Duck,” Mama picked up. “We know that they come through the arch in the woods, and we know that they attack here on Earth. But they’re not from Sylvain.”

“Why? Why do they attack, here?”

Mama and Barclay exchanged a glance. “We don’t rightly know. We’ve got some theories.”

“Was that what that thing was last night? One of these Abomination thingies?”

“We believe so, Duck,” Barclay answered.

“Well, what the fu--’scuse me, ma’am,” Duck said to Mama.

“Duck Newton, I do not give two fucks if you swear.”

“All right, then--what the fuck? Y’all make it sound like it’s not the first one--how come no one knows about these things, then? What’s going on?”

“It’s not the first one, Duck,” Mama said. “This has been goin’ on, oh. Roughly twenty years now.”

“Twenty _years_?”

“About every couple of months, yeah, right around the full moon.”

“Why doesn’t anybody know about this?” Duck could feel panic rising.

“And how, exactly, do you think it would go, Duck Newton? If everyone in the town, hell, in the state, in the country, knew about a stone gateway in the woods that led to another world? Except, oh, every once in a while monsters came out of it and wreaked havoc? These monsters ain’t from that world, but you really think humans would make that distinction? You think that would go over so well, then, Duck?”

 _Shit._ “No. No, you got a point. I’ve seen what people can do. Humans,” Duck clarified, glancing at Barclay.

“People,” Barclay admitted. “Sylphs aren’t always much better.”

“So, that’s what we’ve been doin’,” Mama continued. “There’s a group of us--or, there has been, over the last twenty years. We call ourselves the Pine Guard. We hunt these Abominations, every couple of months, and we kill them, hopefully, _usually_ before they can hurt or kill anyone else here on Earth. We’ve learned their rules, over the years, and we’ve gotten pretty good at it, exception’ it's down to me an’ Barclay, these days. Well, and Ned, now, too.”

“Ned?” Duck asked, surprised, turning to his friend. “Since when, Ned?”

“Since, what, oh, maybe half an hour ago?” Ned answered.

“ _Why_?” Duck hissed at him.

Ned shrugged. “Wanting to make a difference in this world?” Duck gave him a look. “Oh, fine, all right. Boredom?” 

That, Duck could buy.

Mama broke in. “What we’re asking, Duck, is this: Barclay told me all about last night. He told me how you probably saved his life, and Ned’s too. But more than that, he told me how you fought. He told me how you faced off against that beast, and did not back down. So what we’re asking is this: God knows we could use someone like you on the team. So what do you say, Duck? Join the Pine Guard?”

Duck Newton looked around the room, bewildered. They all stared at him, expectantly.

“You’re all out of your minds. You know that, right?”

And Duck Newton stood up.

He turned, and walked away.

“Duck, wait!” Ned called, and Duck stood there a moment, his hand on the doorknob. “We need you.”

“Nope.”

“Duck, I _saw_ you last night,” Barclay said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We could really use your help.”

“Absolutely not.” 

He turned the knob, but stopped in the doorway when Mama spoke. There was something in her voice that gave him pause. “Just think about it, Duck. Just go, and think about it for a bit, okay?”

“I need a fuckin’ smoke,” Duck muttered, heading out of the office and out of the Lodge.

*

Duck Newton, the Chosen, stepped out on the porch, and leaned against a porch rail. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and lit one up.

She was there. Standing right next to him, gazing out over the parking lot.

“Hey, Minerva.”

“Well, Duck Newton, here we are. The moment of your destiny.”

 _Could she fucking not? Just, for once?_ “Really,” he deadpanned. "They want me to _hunt monsters_ , Minerva."

"Yes, Duck Newton. Your destiny," she said slowly, as though explaining something to a child.

Duck turned to face her static blue form. “Say, Minerva? How much do you know about all of this, anyway?”

“A bit,” she answered. _She wasn’t telling the whole truth._

“So, the monsters, Abominations, I mean, and Sylvain, and all--it’s all true?”

“Do they call the creatures ‘Abominations’ here, Duck Newton? Fascinating. Appropriate, I suppose, from what I know of them.”

“What _do_ you know, Minnie?”

“Some,” was all she replied. There was a silence as Duck took another pull from his cigarette. He held it for a moment, and breathed the smoke out. “Duck Newton, I know that it is your responsibility to vanquish these Abominations. To find their source, and to destroy it as well. That is why you were Chosen, Duck Newton. This is your destiny to fulfill.”

“Are you from Sylvain, Minerva?” Duck asked.

She glanced at him. “I am not, Duck Newton. I know nothing of this Sylvain of which you speak. My home is elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“That is not important.”

She was so goddamn _mysterious_ , all the time. He’d never gotten a straight answer from her. Duck sighed. “Why me, though? Why’s it gotta be my destiny? Why do _I_ have to do this, for fuck’s sake?”

“Someone has to, Duck Newton. You were Chosen. You must protect your planet. You may save worlds beyond your own.” She looked at him, now, with an intensity he could feel, even though he could not see it. “You are capable of this, Duck Newton. I have faith in you.”

“It’s still a fucking lot to put on a guy, Minerva. You know that, right? I know I’ve said it before, but _Jesus._ I don’t want to save the world. I just want to save some trees or some shit.”

Minerva nodded. “I can understand your feelings, Duck Newton,” she said, with more sincerity than he expected. They both looked back over the parking lot. Duck took a final drag on his cigarette and exhaled long, stubbing the cigarette out.

Duck Newton, the Conflicted, made a decision. He looked over at Minerva, gauging her. 

“So you really think I oughta do this, Minerva?”

“Duck Newton, I do not think that you have a choice.”

“All right.” 

The realization hit him a moment later. “Fuck. I’m gonna need that goddamn sword, aren’t I?”

Minerva was gone.

*

There was a sheepish knock at the office door. Mama, Barclay, Ned looked up from the map they were bent over. “Come in,” Mama called.

Duck Newton stood in the doorway.

“All right. How’re we gonna do this?”


	4. Push and Shove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took longer than I'd have liked to update, mostly because, as an American? The last couple of weeks have been weird. As such, this chapter is more unnecessarily expostion-y than I'd like but I had to write something to get me back in the habit, so. This is it, yikes. (Originally I'd wanted this to be the last chapter paralleling the first arc but that didn't happen.)

Ned Chicane hadn’t been lying, when he’d said that they needed Duck Newton’s help.

The Pine Guard, as it turned out, was a fucking mess.

Duck stared in disappointment at the mess of maps, and a sketch that Dani had completed of the Abomination they were set to fight--a surprisingly accurate rendering, for someone who hadn’t seen the Beast. She was quite the artist, or Barclay had quite a good eye for detail, or probably both.

“So is this . . . this is really all we got to go on, huh?” Duck Newton, the Despairing, asked.

“Well, yep,” Mama said. “This is about all we’ve ever got to go on, bein’ honest.”

“Y’all just. Just figure out what the thing is, and hunt it? Like, plain ol’ hunting, hunt?”

Mama and Barclay looked at each other and nodded, shrugged. “Not much else we can do, these days, Duck,” Barclay admitted.

“There used to be, ah. A bit more to the process,” Mama explained. “There also used to be quite a few more members of the Pine Guard, too. We were able to, well, organize better, for one thing. There was this one fella, Thacker? He kind of made a study of the Abominations, kept some notes and stuff, he was tryin’ to figure them out. But he took off, oh, about six, seven years ago now, and took all that knowledge with him.”

“Thacker?” Duck asked. “Not Arlo Thacker, the guy who used to run Kepler Expeditions?”

“Yeah, that’s--shit, Duck, you probably knew him some, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, Mama. I mean, we worked with him some, up in the forest and all. Made sure he had the right permits for Kep Ex, helped him plan routes and stuff for his hikes and rafting. I liked him. Always kinda wondered what happened to him.”

“Yeah, you and me both, Duck. We sure could use him around, these days. I reckon you didn’t know this, but those last few years, he mostly was running Kep Ex to keep food on the table. The Abominations, and Sylvain? That’s what really kept him goin’, those last few years.”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess I don’t know all that much about this stuff, but I can see that of him. Kind of an odd, uh, duck. As it were,” Duck finished lamely.

Mama laughed generously. “Honestly, you’ve got no idea. But we all liked him for it.” She glanced at Barclay, then, before continuing. “Actually, Duck, Ned? We’re gonna level with y’all. Barclay and I spent a good deal of time talkin’ last night, after y’all’s encounter with the Beast, and, well. Like I said, it’s down to just me and Barclay in the Pine Guard these days. And we’ve always been, uh. Let’s just say that Barclay and I fight stronger rather than smarter. He’s kinda the muscle, and I’m a bit more about keepin’ things runnin’, financially and otherwise. So, we were kinda hopin’ you two might could step in, help out with some of the things we’re not so good with.”

Ned raised a receptive eyebrow. 

Duck frowned. 

“How so, Mama?” Ned asked.

“Well, Ned, you’re. I guess not an expert, per se. But we all know about your little monster museum on the outskirts of town.”

“The Cryptonomica, yes,” Ned filled in. Duck watched his friend carefully. Ned was somewhere between flattered and deeply insulted.

“Yeah, exactly, that little . . . establishment.” Mama couldn’t hide her disdain--Duck could all but hear her unsaid explicatives--but Barclay looked embarrassed enough for the both of them. Ned, in typical fashion, took her contempt in good humor. Duck Newton and Ned Chicane were old friends, and Duck knew that Ned liked to lean into his charisma, liked to think he was everyone’s friend, or at least their weird-but-warmhearted uncle-figure. But Duck also knew that Ned secretly delighted in an enemy or two, in the drama of an antagonistic relationship. “Anyway,” Mama cleared her throat. “We were thinkin’, spending all that time alone in that little museum of yours, you might’ve picked up a thing or two about monsters, and about some of the local legends, especially. Some expertise that might prove quite useful.”

Ned shifted a little in his seat. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’ve learned a few things over the years,” he admitted. “But, uh. You do know that I don’t believe in any of this bullshit. Didn't until last night, at least, anyway, right?”

Mama shrugged him off. “You can not believe in things but still know a lot about them, Ned.”

“True.”

“It’s a lot to ask, but could you maybe step in with helpin’ us learn a little more about these things? Where they might come from, how they might act, things like that?”

Ned Chicane was always susceptible to flattery, even if it was offered so, so very reluctantly. “Mama, I’ve already told you that I’m in. I might not know the most about these things, but hell. I am _so_ very bored in this town, and I think it’s no secret that the Cryptonomica’s not exactly doing a big business these days, so yeah. I’ll work on learning about these Abomination things, and see if I can’t piece some stuff together. Besides,” Ned continued, “I have a colleague, Kirby, who is . . . an eager protege, and quite enthusiastic about local cryptids and other monsters. He might, uh. Be able to provide some information that I’m lacking.”

“Now, Ned, you know that you can’t tell anyone about this,” Barclay said sternly.

“Of course, Friend Barclay! I don’t have to tell this stooge of mine shit. He owes me quite a bit, and he’s not the sort to ask questions.” Duck Newton knew the kid, Kirby--early twenties, an amateur reporter, wrote his own cryptid zine: a small website and newsletter he published with some regularity. Ned Chicane was lying through his teeth; Kirby would ask so very many questions.

“All right,” Duck said, in attempt to change the subject. “Still not seeing what y’all need me for, though. Besides, uh, the obvious muscle.” 

This was a joke. 

The man who was Bigfoot, and a huge, hulking, seven-foot tall, musclebound Bigfoot at that, was in the room. 

No one laughed.

“Well, Duck,” Mama explained. “While we, well, Barclay, was deeply impressed with your chutzpah, we kinda need some help on the wilderness-front, too.”

“Wilderness-front, huh?”

“Yes sir, Duck. We figure you know the woods around here better'n about anybody. Fact is, for all our years working at this, you’ve still seen more of these woods than any of us. And besides, you’ve got to have some expertise in, like, tracking creatures an’ things?”

Duck did, but he didn’t have to tell these people that. “Listen, y’all. I’m not a hunter or anything. That kinda goes against the whole, uh, ethos of bein’ a ranger. Y’all know that, right? We’re not out there huntin’. In fact, it’s kind of our job to preserve as much of these natural wonders that we’re blessed to have surround us here in Kepler as possible.”

“Yeah, Duck, maybe you’re right. But these things? They ain’t exactly ‘natural,’ not in the of-this-world sense, at least,” Mama said.

She had a point, he hated to admit. What he’d seen last night? It wasn’t something natural, it wasn’t something of the Monongahela Forest, it wasn't something of Earth. It was something else. The strange, patchwork pelt, the faces of the different animals, bear, sure, but deer and rabbit and coyote? _It was like the Beast somehow absorbed all of these other creatures into it, turning it odd, monstrous._ That, well. That _was_ playing havoc with the Monongahela ecosystem. 

He couldn’t ignore that, right?

_Why was he trying to justify this to himself?_

“All right, so, guide. And a bit of tracking. I can do that,” Duck conceded.

“And fighting,” Barclay said.

“I would prefer to not.”

“Duck, I saw you last night. You’re a natural at this,” Barclay continued.

_Fuck._

He knew it was true. There was something about it that came naturally, but he hated it, he hated it, he _hated it_. “Okay, but that wasn’t really, y’know. _Me._ Anyway, what the fuck do you expect me to do, shoot the damn thing? Wait. Is that what y’all usually do? Buncha gun-toting sumbitches or something?”

Mama and Barclay glanced at each other with some reluctance. 

“It’s loud and messy,” Mama admitted, “but it usually does the job, yeah.”

“I don’t even own a gun,” Duck argued.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Mama said. “We’ve got, uh, a bit of an armory.”

Duck Newton stared at her.

Ned perked up, then. “But you don’t care much for guns, anyway, do you, Duck? You’re more of a hands-on kind of weapon guy, aren’t you? What’s it--not ranged, but the other. Melee, that’s it.”

Duck Newton grimaced. “Ned--”

Barclay looked between the two men curiously. Mama watched Duck Newton closely.

“You know, I’ve still got that weird sword thing--”

“Jesus, Ned!” _Jesus._ “I thought I told you to get rid of that thing!”

“What sword thing?” Mama was asking at the same time.

“Please.” Ned rolled his eyes. “We both know you wanted me to hold on to it precisely because you knew that I _wouldn’t_ pawn it off.” Duck Newton looked at him desperately. “All right, I couldn’t find a buyer. Besides, I thought it looked kinda cool.”

 _Jesus!_ “You haven’t been . . . displaying it, have you, Ned?”

“ _What_ sword thing?” Mama repeated.

“Duck, of course not, I keep it in the upstairs room. Haven’t found a way to work it into a display yet.”

“Ned, I swear to God--”

“ _What sword thing?_ ” Mama hissed in a voice that could not be denied.

Duck and Ned stopped cold. Duck cleared his throat. “Might’ve, uh. Come into possession of an enchanted? Cursed? Enchanted sword, some years ago, that I gave to Ned for safekeeping. That, _for some reason_ , he felt he had to bring up today.”

“A real sword?” Barclay asked dubiously.

“You know how to use this sword?” Mama asked curiously.

“No,” Duck Newton answered confidently.

“Oh, he definitely knows how to use it, Mama,” Barclay said.

“Look, Barclay, you don’t even know me--”

“Duck, I _saw_ you last--”

“Enough!” Mama all but yelled. “We ain’t got much time. We gotta take this thing down tonight. We don’t know how long it’s been hangin’ around the woods, so if we don’t take it down soon, it could start to roam, and we don’t want it gettin’ down into town. Duck, go get your sword thing. Ned, we can hook you up with a gun--”

“Not necessary,” Ned supplied.

Duck made a disapproving sound in his throat.

“What?” Ned hissed at him.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mama continued. “Gather your weapons and supplies, boys. Duck, you can help us track this thing? Then we’ll meet back here come nightfall, get together, go over some final plans.

This Abomination meets its end tonight.”

*

“Come on, Ned, hurry up,” Duck Newton complained. He was sitting on the bumper of Ned Chicane’s deep red Lincoln Continental and bouncing his leg as Ned fiddled and fidgeted with the keys to the door of the Cryptonomica.

The Crytonomica looked unassuming from the outside--a simple square two-story building of gray-painted brick on the outskirts of Kepler, West Virginia’s Riverside District. It was the first building that many people saw upon entering town, and it didn’t make the best impression: unlike many of the kitschy-yet-charming Swiss chalet-style storefronts that decorated the heart of Kepler, the Cryptonomica was plain, even ugly in its relative disrepair. The gray brick needed repainting; the paint of ornate hand-lettered sign bearing the name of the museum on the plate glass window above the double doors was chipping. The massive front windows that faced the street from the front of the building featured a truly gaudy display of the Jersey Devil, that seemed to be pieced together from bad taxidermy.

It really was no wonder that so many people in Kepler hated the place so very passionately.

Beyond the glass front doors, the museum itself was dimly-lit--“for the atmosphere,” Ned insisted, but sometimes the light flickered, and Ned didn’t have the funds to replace a burnt bulb, let alone redo faulty wiring--and crammed full of curiosities. Many of these centered around local, regional, and national legends and cryptids--Bigfoot, the Jersey Devil. Even larger displays dedicated to West Virginia’s very own, very well-known Mothman and Flatwoods Monster, as well as smaller but surprisingly informative displays about the less famous Sheepsquatch and The Smiling Man. But the shop boasted other oddities, as well, various props and posters from the Golden Age of Hollywood, many from the classic Universal monster movies, as well as memorabilia from a number of unknown B-grade monsters-and-aliens flicks. One long side wall was dedicated to a series of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that featured everything from informative nonfiction books and pamphlets on local folklore and monster theory, to an ancient and musty spy, horror, and monster pulp novel collection that would have been the envy of many a collector or archive. At the back of the room was a door that led to a small office. The office offered a door that led to Ned’s tiny studio living quarters, with barely room enough for a double bed between the kitchenette and the minuscule bathroom, a couple of bins on shelves that could only be reached by standing on the bed, the only storage the room offered. But for what the small bedroom Ned kept lacked in storage, the shrouded, dusty second floor of the building made up for--a strange and fantastic lofty storage space, kept always under lock-and-key and known only as the Chicanery. No one was allowed access to the Chicanery, save Ned Chicane himself. No one had ever seen inside the Chicanery since Ned had taken over ownership of the Cryptonomica following the death of its former proprietor, save Ned Chicane himself.

Or so Ned Chicane claimed.

Duck Newton didn’t quite believe him, but no one ever _quite_ believed Ned Chicane.

They climbed the shadowy staircase that hugged the side wall of the Cryptonomica, up to the second floor, where Ned, again, fumbled with keys to get the door unlocked. It stuck for just a moment before swinging open into a dark room. There were a number of windows on this floor--anyone passing by could see them from the street--but the shades were always kept down, and very little sunlight peeked in around the edges of these shades. Duck couldn’t help himself, and he peered curiously over Ned’s shoulder for a glimpse into the room. He was taken aback, though, when Ned flipped a switch by the door, and a number of display cases lit up with gentle but sure light.

“Damn, Ned,” Duck said.

If the Cryptonomica was dusty and dingy and crowded, the Chicanery was pristine. Fine display cases lined the walls and stood proudly in the middle of the room, shining glass boxes over polished dark mahogany cabinets. These cases were full of the most unlikely things: jewelry, leather bound books, sculpture, other items the purpose and nature of which Duck couldn’t recognize upon quick glance. Duck swore he saw something that looked like an Oscar in one of the cases. Paintings were interspersed with the cases along the perimeter of the room, and Duck knew that he recognized some of the art.

“All right, Ned, I don’t mean to pry or anything, but . . . what the fuck is all of this?”

Ned Chicane raised an eyebrow. “Don’t see that that concerns you, Duck.”

“Fair enough,” Duck said, and tried to shrug it off. “So, where’s the fuckin’ sword?”

“This way.” Ned nodded toward the back of the room, and Duck could see it, could see _him_ , displayed much like all of the other strange artifacts, laying on a green velveteen bed in a shining case, lit by its own spotlight.

_Beacon._

Ned unlocked a small key lockbox by the door, and removed a key for the display case. Together, Ned and Duck approached the case, and Ned unlocked it with some reverence. “You sure you want this thing back, Duck?”

“No,” Duck answered, sighed. “But I guess I fucking need it.”

Beacon was as beautiful and terrible to behold as the first day that Duck Newton saw him. A lean, elegant black pommel and grip leading up to an intricate crossguard that, if a person didn’t know better, they would swear looked exactly, morbidly, maliciously like a mouth. (Duck Newton knew better.) The guard opened into a strange blade, mortally sharp, but not long and straight like the typical weapon that bore the name sword. Instead, his blade curled and coiled in on himself, wound into a tight spiral on the cushioned velvet of the display case. 

Duck Newton reached into the case and took the hated, the _right_ weight of Beacon’s hilt in his hand. Slowly, he withdrew the sword.

Beacon stretched and yawned, the blade extending to his full straightened length, his mouth opening wide in the yawn and displaying a set of terrible teeth, crowded and sharp, more teeth than were found in a human mouth.

Ned Chicane stared. “Uh, Duck? What the _fuck_ is that thing?”

The sword didn’t give Duck Newton the chance to answer, hissing, spitting vitriol in a hateful voice, “ _My name is Beacon, mortal._

_I am the light that stands against the darkness, I am the tower above the fog._

_I am the most terrible, beautiful weapon ever forged._

_And what the_ fuck _are you?_ ”

“Shit!” Ned exclaimed, backing into the case behind him.

“Hey, Beacon,” Duck Newton said with a sigh.

“ _Ah, Duck Newton. My Chosen Warrior, my Skillful Wielder, my Indomitable Hero of Legend. My Destiny. Have you had a nice five years, Duck? Would you like to know how I’ve spent the last five years, Duck? I’ve been a_ museum piece _! For a museum that no one ever visits! Save this ignorant beast that stands before us. Kept amongst oddities like another piece of humanity’s trash, I’ve been secluded, kept from the light, packed away in a cold glass box. Kept from my purpose, Duck Newton. And whose fault is that, Duck? Hmm?_ ”

“Duck--” Ned started, but Duck quickly quieted him.

“Just let him finish, man.”

Beacon continued in his voice like acid. “ _And where was I, the fifteen years prior to that, hm, Duck? Not locked away in an empty STORAGE UNIT? ALONE, DUCK NEWTON, AND KEPT FROM MY PURPOSE. This is on your head, Duck Newton. I crave battle, Duck, I thirst for the blood of enemies, yours and mine both, Duck Newton. I need destruction, I need righteous justice. Why have you kept me from this destiny of ours, Duck Newton?_ ”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie--this? This is part of it,” Duck Newton said.

“ _What, Duck? My unwavering sense of purpose? My existential surety? My fundamental correctness, Duck?_ ”

“No, Beacon, your anger management issues.”

“ _‘Anger management issues?’_ ” the sword hissed in a quiet, disdainful voice that was even more frightening than his voice, raised. “ _Do you fancy me subject to your human concepts of psychology and regulated emotion, Duck Newton, do you--_ ”

Duck held the sword awkwardly by the guard, clamping his mouth shut with both of his hands as Beacon struggled against him. “See what I mean, Ned?” Duck asked, with some desperation.

Beacon curled angrily back in on himself.

“Jesus, Duck. And I’ve been here, alone with this son of a bitch living in my shop for so many years? You could’ve warned a fella.”

“Well, I think he’s having a bit of a tantrum--”

“ _TANTRUM?_ ” Beacon’s enraged voice managed to break through Duck’s tight grip.

“--right now. But, yeah, I mean. He is a sword, Ned, and kind of a prick.”

“I can see why you wanted to be rid of it.”

Beacon hissed at Ned from Duck’s hand, but held his tongue. 

“Yep. Looks like I’m stuck with him, now, though. For tonight, at least, huh, Beacon?”

Beacon growled and grumbled between Duck Newton’s fists.

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
